The streets commanded respect. Most things were out of the question here. All sound except that of the ministerial clack of steel-tipped Oxfords and brogues briskly mounting steps was inappropriate. Steps. All the time our tread was led persuasively upward. We felt that we were being drawn towards the heart of something without ever arriving there. A sense of conviction grew. Each street or arrangement of steps led to a statue: a rearing horse, a hussar waving a sword, an august statesman surveying the streets and stamping them with unbending authority.
The sound of Foomie’s laughter floated back to us on scarves of breath. We walked towards Big Ben. Looking up we saw first the vertical, black railings; then the chaotic branches of bare trees; behind the branches was the intricate decoration of Parliament; above that the sky which, oddly, still seemed purple.
We walked past a square manhole cover. Sharp green light glinted through two small access holes. Curling our fingers through these holes Steranko and I pulled back the cover. Immediately, like the glare from a treasure chest of jewels, our faces were bathed in electric lime-coloured light. A metal ladder ran down from the pavement to the green-bathed room below. A single red dial winked silently in the green room, as obvious as a drop of blood on grass. Extending from this room a small tunnel ran beneath our feet, at right angles to the kerb.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ We lowered the cover, careful not to trap our fingers.
‘What do you think that was?’
‘I don’t know.’ It was impossible to say. My eyes were still recovering from the green glare.
We walked across Westminster Bridge. The river was oily, dark and full of harm.
‘Crossing a bridge is always romantic,’ said Belinda. ‘I wonder why?’
‘Whistler,’ said Freddie.
‘Sometimes when I walk over a bridge I have this fear that I’m going to throw all my money over the edge,’ I said. ‘I get it on boats too when I’m standing at the back, watching the seagulls and all the litter bobbing around in the wake.’ I felt a certain pride in formulating this statement. Big Ben struck two. We were all standing close together and looked back at the huge silvery-white clockface.
‘You always know where you are when you can see Big Ben,’ said Foomie.
‘That’s right. Where are we again?’
The Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey were slightly hazy in the mist. Except for the river nothing was moving. A jagged crack of lightning flashed over Westminster. The sky flinched and then was still again.
038
The weeks went by quickly. I did some decorating with Carlton and even got a week’s work doing visual research for a film. At first it seemed a nice job — sitting in libraries and browsing through catalogues — but the novelty soon wore off. Even when the novelty had worn off it was still quite nice. If I wasn’t working I spent the afternoons playing squash and in the evenings I got drunk at parties. It was a good time of the year. Pubs and buses were full.
One night I came out of the Recreation Centre at about five o’clock. Beneath the cool night sky a train rushed over the railway bridge. Through each window I could see the imploring faces of commuters heading south. The market traders were packing up their stalls, loading unsold items and produce into their vans.
Christmas lights hung across Brixton High Street: stars, lanterns, candles, holly shapes, the smiling outline of a yellow moon. The tree outside the Ritzy was swathed in blue and red bulbs. A group of smartly-dressed men, women and children were singing gospel in front of the library.
A single star was hanging in the sky. I mention it only because it was there.
037
Just outside my block was a van selling hamburgers; it looked like a belch in 3D and inside it was a guy toiling away in a tropical drizzle of grease and onions. Walking away from it a lard-faced man threw his empty carton on to the grass in front of the flats.
‘Oi! Don’t you live on this fucking planet?’ I shouted. He turned round, mouth working like the back of a garbage truck, ketchup smeared down his chin.
‘No,’ he said through a mouthful of half-chewed animal.
Leaving him to it, I walked to the centre of Brixton and spent an hour trawling for Christmas presents before settling down to the sedate and steadily unrewarding activity of reading jazz sleeve notes at the record stall. Holding his styrofoam cup at an angle reminiscent of Lester Young the guy running the stall sucked hot soup through a straw. People were walking quickly along, rolls of wrapping paper protruding from their carrier bags. Some of the market stalls were also draped with coloured bulbs and tinsel. I saw Luther shuffling around with his coffee jar, a piece of tinsel draped festively around it. A police van parked by the entrance to the market played screechy recordings of Christmas carols and reminded shoppers that pickpockets were operating in the area.
Someone called my name. Steranko and Foomie, arm-in-arm, both wearing overcoats and smiling, made their way through the crowd. We stopped and talked about Christmas shopping while people bustled past, our breath forming momentary tangles of sculpture. A hand came down hard on my shoulder.
‘Drug squad,’ said a voice near my ear. I jumped and looked around.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that Carlton,’ I said.
‘You spook easy, man,’ he said, laughing. He too was carrying a big bag of shopping. We were all pleased to see each other.
‘What time is it?’ Steranko asked.
‘One fifty seven,’ said Foomie.
‘How d’you know that?’
As she gestured towards the town hall clock it occurred to me that none of my friends owned a watch.
‘In that case,’ said Steranko, ‘I decree that we abandon our attempts to buy Freddie a Christmas present and spend the money on ourselves in the boozer instead.’
We stayed in the pub until three o’clock. Outside the afternoon reeled into us. After a sleep and some food we returned to the Effra in the evening. It was crowded, people were standing several deep at the bar. Gold streamers, silver balls and coloured balloons caught the warm light of the pub and bounced it around the bar. The large ceiling fan rotated quickly overhead. I squeezed in between Belinda and Freddie. All around us people were drinking and talking. I knew most of them by sight. From the other bar came cheers from people playing darts. Every twenty minutes or so Carlton and Steranko would get called into the pool table in the other bar. Before he went to play Carlton pulled on a pair of wire rimmed spectacles that made him look about fourteen years old.
‘How come you’re wearing glasses Carlton?’ I said.
Belinda laughed.
‘You tell him Lin,’ Carlton said.
‘He stayed at my place last night but didn’t have his contact lens case with him so he put them in a glass of water by the bed but he didn’t say anything to me. In the morning they were gone. I drank them in the night,’ Belinda said.
‘Women man,’ said Carlton while everyone else laughed.
‘What about you Freddie, has anyone ever drunk your contact lenses?’